


Walking the Ghost

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-21
Updated: 2003-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg knows more than he should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking the Ghost

"You never let 'em in."

Greg looked up from lighting his cigarette. The man who had spoken was another comic, a Mancunian named Ross Emrick. He'd performed at the beginning of the show; Greg had arrived late and missed his spot. Greg raised an eyebrow at him. Emrick shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly. He looked a little drunk.

"The audience," Emrick said. "You talk at them, you don't interact with them. There's no seduction."

Greg shrugged his shoulders. He thought, *Who the fuck does this guy think he is?* It was late, his tour manager was pulling the car around so he could get back to the flat, and he had no interest in talking comedy technique right now. "Just my act, man," he said with a smile and focused his attention on the doorframe.

"It's *not,*" Emrick persisted. "It's an out."

Greg stared at him.

"It's an out. You don't engage. You stand there and you comment and you snipe and you don't give them anything."

"Look, dude, do I fucking *know* you?" Greg said, irritated enough to respond by now.

"Doesn't hurt to make the audience like you. Get a little personal."

"Jesus. What am I supposed to do, take the crowd on a guided tour of my scars?"

"I'm just saying…"

"I'm really not that interested. I've seen confessional comedy. It's not funny. It's so far from funny that the light from funny would take a thousand years to reach it. Excuse me for being a professional."

He saw the car pull up. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked out the door, mumbling, "Getting heckled by my own fuckin' profession."

He got into the car, rolling down the window. Mark, his tour manager, said, "Hey. Sorry it took so long. There was an accident round the corner."

Greg looked away from the dashboard. "Jesus. Bad?"

"I didn't see. Too many police around."

"Well, at least you made it." They were passing a row of parked cars; they seemed alarmingly close to him.

"Gig went okay, I thought."

"Yeah, it was okay. They got more into it at the end. I don't know."

"Don't want to talk about it?"

Greg shrugged. "I don't think I can be that coherent. I can break it down later."

"Something happen?"

"Nothing. Just some asshole." Greg rolled his eyes and stared out of the window. Mark got the hint and didn't pursue the topic.

"You going out tonight?"

"Don't know. What time is it?" He ran his hand over his mouth; his fingers brushed against the scar on his chin. The skin there felt unnaturally smooth, a thin layer covering up a hole.

"Almost midnight."

"Probably not."

They were getting to his flat; Mark idled the car. "Ever considered learning to drive here?"

"The streets are dangerous enough." Greg got out of the passenger seat. "I have another gig tomorrow, right?"

"No, the day after. In King's Lynn. I'll bring the car round at noon."

"All right. Thank you." Greg waved, watching the car disappear, and plodded inside.

He went up to bed, tugging off his tie. He considered just dropping it on the floor, along with the rest of his clothes, but then he would have to wake up in the morning and pick up after himself, and it was just too much of a pain in the ass to contemplate. He laid his clothes on the chair beside the bed before burrowing under the sheets.

*****

Jacob had very blue eyes. They were focused on him, distracting him from the road. He thought about asking where they were, but he figured that he'd see something familiar soon. The trees along the side of the road were leafless and twisted.

"All the king's horses and all the king's men," Jacob said.

Greg turned to say something, but the steering wheel lurched in his hands. He tried to grab it, but it slithered under his fingers, crawling across the dashboard.

"Couldn't put back together again," Jacob said, just before his head fell back and the gash in his throat opened up.

Greg tore off his seatbelt and leaned over, clutching Jacob's hands. Blood dripped onto his arms; his shirt was nothing more than a wet red stain.

Jacob was still looking at him, and somehow that was worse than anything, worse than the gaping hole in his throat and the blood streaming through his fingers.

"All the king's men," Jacob repeated, and Greg wondered where the sound was coming from, how he could still be speaking. "Can I put you back together again?" And then suddenly he ripped his hands away from Greg's and brought them up, fingernails digging into the skin of Greg's temples. Greg couldn't push him away. He could feel nothing but bloody mangled fingers on his face; his lips were slick with blood.

*****

Greg woke clawing at the air. His sheets were wrapped around his ankles. He hauled himself up and leaned against the headboard. His hair was damp with sweat; he felt droplets sliding down the back of his neck.

He reached for his glasses and looked at the clock. It was 3:00. Too late to call anyone, and the way his heart was hammering, he doubted he'd be able to go back to sleep any time soon. He didn't think he even wanted to try; he was sure he would close his eyes and see the blood again, or Jacob's eyes looking into his…

Stop. Stop. Go take a shower.

Greg kicked the sheets away and went into the bathroom. The pipes clanked when he turned the water on.

"Antiquated piece of shit," Greg said. His voice was hoarse and clotted; it bounced off the walls. He put his glasses on top of the toilet tank and stepped into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed.

He'd thought that taking a shower would make him feel better, but the water felt unpleasant on his skin, too warm, too slick. He mumbled, "Christ's sake," to himself and felt the shower spray hit his face. There was a faint coppery smell; somehow the water seemed *thick,* not liquid at all, sticking to him, to his hair, to his skin, God, getting in his mouth, sliding down his throat…

Greg lurched forward, coughing and gagging. He fumbled to turn the tap off with one hand, keeping the other one braced against the tiles. The water gurgled as it went down the drain. For a second he was afraid he might pass out.

He spat into the drain and pushed the shower curtain aside, sitting down on the edge of the tub. He put his elbows on his knees and tried to breathe normally. All he could manage was gulps of air. The steam from the hot water had dispersed quickly, leaving the bathroom cold.

"Fuckin' miserable fuckin'…" Greg said, shivering. He pressed his eyes into the palms of his hands. He wasn't going to cry. It was too ridiculous. Not over a stupid fucking…

Stop.

Greg counted off the multiplication tables silently. Ten times ten equals one hundred. Eleven times eleven equals one hundred twenty one. By the time he got to thirty times thirty, he'd stopped gasping for breath and he was able to stand up and dry off.

He took his glasses and went into the bedroom. Going back to bed was out of the question; he might as well go watch TV or something. He started to go out to the living room but turned around, mumbling, "I am *not* going to walk around here bareass," and threw on a T-shirt and his black sweatpants before heading out.

He sloshed together a whiskey and coke and turned on the TV. All the non-cable channels just showed a blue dot on the screen and all the cable channels had was reruns of Only Fools and Horses. Greg took a drink. He wished he had some good weed. He wished he had some sleeping pills.

He stood up and walked over to the stereo, poking through the CDs. None of them looked interesting. He needed new stuff.

"Tell me what I should get," he heard at the back of his head, Jacob's light Minneapolis twang unmistakable.

"Quit it," Greg said feebly. Jesus Christ, it'd come to this? He was turning into a character from some cheap ripoff of Poe.

He put on a random CD and stood back up. He swallowed the rest of his drink; it tasted of medicine and sugar water. He grimaced and went for another. It probably wasn't the brightest idea; on nights like these alcohol just tended to exacerbate the issue. But fucked up was fucked up, and he wanted the image out of his head, Jacob answering the door to the apartment back in San Fran, Greg fidgeting and creasing the 'Roommate wanted' ad in his jacket pocket between his fingers. Something had to block it out. There had to be something.

He poured the whiskey into the glass. It looked like piss. Lousy, cheap, bargain basement…He thought about tossing the bottle across the room, watching the glass splinter and shatter. He put his hands on the kitchen countertop and took a breath. Fucking ghosts.

*****

The man who opened the door was an inch or so taller than Greg was, blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered. Greg wondered whether he'd unwittingly stumbled into a movie --- The Den of Ex-High School Jocks Who Like To Beat Greg Up.

"Greg, right? I'm Jacob." His handshake was quick. "Come on in."

The apartment was bigger than he'd thought it was going to be. At first everything looked white; white paint, white upholstery, white curtains on the two French windows. It took a minute for Greg to notice the wooden floor (Mahogany? Teak? His house had linoleum floors) and the butter-colored rug in the center of the room. He ran a hand through his hair. Everything looked fucking expensive.

Jacob brought out coffee, invited him to sit down. The coffee was hot but tasted like grainy water. Greg drank it anyway.

He wondered what to say. This was like a job interview, and job interviews always made him want to behave badly. He wanted to say, "Oh, this place looks *great.* Where'd you get your design ideas from, Anal Retentives-R-Us? Christ. Oh no, a piece of lint! Quick, we must sterilize everything!"

He finished the coffee, suppressing a grimace. Jacob offered him a cigarette; it wasn't his brand but he took it.

Jacob lit his own cigarette. He looked like a blond Buddha. Well, not really, seeing as he wasn't Asian. Or fat. The only real similarity was the peaceful expression.

"What do you do for a living, Greg?" Jacob said.

"I'm an actor." Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. Actors were always out of work and couldn't pay the rent on time. Actors weren't good roommates. He backpedaled as fast as he could. "I mean, sort of. I'm a clerk right now. What do you do?"

"I'm an accountant." Jacob leaned forward. "Do you do plays, movies?"

"Oh." Greg thought a minute. He could pad his resume or be honest and hopefully charmingly self-deprecating. Honesty won out. "Well. I've been in a few things here and there, you know. Wrote a play with a buddy. You know." He realized that it was the second time in about five seconds that he'd used the phrase 'you know,' a nervous twitch of the tongue, a pause filler.

"Sounds fun," Jacob said. Now that Greg thought about it, he didn't seem peaceful so much as detached. Friendly, yes, but uninvolved.

"It was," Greg said. "Can I see the rest of the place?"

"Sure." Jacob rose and beckoned him to follow. "This is the room."

Greg surveyed the digs. It looked like a large dorm room, except for the French window on the far wall. He wondered what to say. "Hell, looks fine to me, but if I don't find another place to live soon, I'm going to have to move back home with my parents and earn my keep by cleaning out the gutters." He looked at Jacob, who was leaning against the wall, hands in pockets. There was no expression in his eyes. Greg wondered if he even registered on Jacob's radar.

Blood rushed to Greg's head; he fumbled for the wall, trying to get a handhold. "Fuck---"

"Jesus." There was a note of alarm in Jacob's voice, a human emotion breaking through. "Are you okay? Should I…"

Greg managed to get to the bed and sat down. He was beginning to sweat. "Can I smoke in here? Please?"

"Yes, of course. Lemme just…" Jacob left the room and then came back, ashtray in hand. "You need a light?"

Greg lit a cigarette. Jacob was sitting beside him, scanning him for any sign of mental or physical collapse. Up close, Greg could see the flaw in Jacob's face: a nose that looked like it had been broken and not set quite correctly, leaving it crooked and swollen. He felt the constriction in his chest ease. "Fuck. Sorry about that. I'm okay."

"Yeah?" Jacob was leaning forward, almost touching him but not quite.

"Yeah. Nerves or something. I don't know."

"That used to happen to me in high school. I'd always be the guy puking in the bathroom before a game."

"What'd you play?" Football, Greg guessed, maybe baseball.

"Ice hockey. It's where I got this." Jacob gestured to his nose. "Do you play anything?"

Greg laughed. "Dude, with my eyesight? I'm lucky I can see my hand, let alone a ball. I just watch 'em. I'm not really a hockey guy, though."

"Not much call for it out here. I'm from Minnesota; we have a lot of ice to play on."

"I guess it was either that or figure skating, right?"

"Or ice fishing." Jacob smiled. "I stopped playing when I graduated and came here."

"Not even, like, for fun? I mean, I know there must be a couple of arenas around."

"Not really." Jacob stood up. "It was part of a different life, that's all."

Greg would have bet a hundred bucks that he was lying. Nobody just up and changed their lives completely. But he didn't say anything.

Greg stubbed out his cigarette. "This has been the weirdest fucking meeting I've ever had."

Jacob laughed. "I've been trying to find a roommate for two weeks now. Believe me, I've had weirder ones."

"Ah. Way to make me feel memorable." Greg stood. "Should I give you my phone number?"

"Sure. I'll call when I know what's happening."

Greg gave him the phone number. "Thanks, man."

"Sure."

Greg showed himself out. A week later, Jacob called him, asking if he wanted to move in.

*****

Greg took another swig of whiskey. He hadn't asked what compelled Jacob to choose him; he hadn't wanted to go into it. Jacob had never asked why he'd freaked out; Greg hadn't wanted to go into that either.

The reason why was that he'd suddenly gone back to high school and found himself back at the bottom of the food chain. Jacob maybe hadn't been one of the troglodytes who'd made his life miserable back then, but he must have been one of the ones at the top. The golden boys.

There had been a strict hierarchy back then. In the middle were the jocks who always tried a little too hard, who may have been on the team but never managed to score the big goal, never got singled out for glory. They traveled in what seemed to be a single pack, so that their proximity to each other would make them more powerful, always back-slapping each other, reassuring each that yes, indeed, they were the man. Greg knew there must have been other groups as well, kids who did photography or ran the school newspaper or did whatever the fuck they did, but the other groups mostly left him alone, so he hadn't had a reason to obsess about them.

Greg had been at the bottom, and he could understand why. He'd been too skinny, too awkward, too much of a wiseass, too emotional. He could never keep his mouth shut, no matter how many times he got slammed into a locker. All it did was make him more sarcastic, more sure that he was the one who was right. He almost didn't blame them for hating him; he lived to remind them how they didn't measure up.

And then there were the golden boys. He knew the phrase 'golden boys' was a cliché, but it was the only phrase that seemed to fit them, the sleek, muscular guys who moved through the school as though the linoleum floors were covered in red carpet. The golden boys never laid a hand on him, but that was only because Greg might as well have been a different species, an insect too tiny to detect. He was too removed from their world to notice. The golden boys could have been direct descendents of the Gettys or they could have lived in trailers; it wasn't about money, it was about their power, the way they always scored more touchdowns, placed first at track meets, hit more grand slams. Golden boys got straight As and never needed to cheat; test answers sprang fully formed from their brains like Athena. They could wear clothes that their mother had bought second hand and make them look like Armani. They never needed to fight or pick on anyone; everyone else was regarded with friendly disinterest. They were a separate, regal caste, not even needing each other's company.

Greg used to stare at them. He'd watch William Boyce or Frank Iannello or Calvin Ashanti in Algebra, as they walked to the playing fields, as they had a quick smoke behind the school before setting off for home. He'd scan their faces and bodies for any imperfection. If they'd just had bad skin or missing teeth or an extra finger, he would have felt better. He could never find anything bad about them. They were Michelangelo's statues come to life, walking embodiments of Horatio Alger stories, and he hated them so much it made his stomach churn. He couldn't do anything about it; he was too insignificant to make them notice him enough to hate him too.

Back then, in his more unforgiving, bloodthirsty teenage years, Greg used to plot revenge a fair amount. Lying in bed, smoking a joint with all his windows open, he composed spectacular ends for the jocks of San Carlos' student body. Sometimes he'd think how he was going to become rich and famous and handsome and adored, come back to the ten year reunion and make them all sorry they hadn't been his friend, but mostly he thought about hurting them. He'd get an armored tank and plow it into the cafeteria where they were eating. He'd plant land mines on the football field just before a game. He'd poison their Gatorade with strychnine. He'd have all of them kidnapped by the CIA and tortured to death in a basement while he watched.

For the golden boys, though, the scenario was always the same. He'd have them all rounded up and brought one by one to a room, empty except for a desk and him. They'd look at him and they'd be afraid for the first time in their lives. He'd smile and they'd smile back, thinking he was going to let them go. Then he'd pick up a fat file off of the desk and begin to read from it. He'd tell them every shameful secret in their lives, the ones that they'd thought no one would ever find out. Bedwetting, impotence, a romantic encounter with a stray dog. They'd shake. They'd cry. They'd scream for him to stop, but he wouldn't, he'd whisper to them like a lover until they were small and weak and helpless.

"Stop it," they'd sob. "Stop, stop, I'll do anything you want if you'll just stop."

He'd pause. "Anything?"

They'd stare up at him; they would be on their knees by now. Their eyes would be soft and swimming with tears. "Anything," they'd say. "Anything you want."

The CD stopped playing; the sudden silence brought Greg back to reality. He ran a hand over his face. There was always a certain amount of shame in remembering the psychotic little bastard you had been.

He wasn't a kid anymore. He didn't need to rely on fantasies to make him feel better. He didn't let anyone get under his skin.

He didn't. He was sure he didn't.

*****

Two months after Greg moved in, he'd settled into an acceptable routine: he was getting standup gigs at the Other and the Holy City Zoo fairly regularly, the guys at his day job didn't care if he came in hungover as long as he got shit done, and Jacob worked equally weird hours, which gave Greg time to think up ways he could appear witty and laid-back and James Bond-esque in front of him. He knew that Jacob probably didn't care how he acted, but it was easier to limit himself to making jokes when they were watching TV, or when Greg, bleary-eyed, was stumbling out the door to work and Jacob was sitting by the window, late for his carpool and not caring.

The times he didn't have a gig, he ordered pizza and watched whatever late night movie was on TV. The television was tiny and ancient; Greg didn't know where Jacob had picked it up. Tonight, it was Village of the Damned: George Sanders dealing with a bunch of creepy-eyed alien kids. Greg sprawled in front of the TV, feet on the coffee table, joint pinched loosely between two fingers.

The front door opened and shut. Greg glanced up briefly. "Hey."

"Hi. What's this?" Jacob sat beside him on the couch. Greg shifted to make room.

"Village of the Damned. George Sanders." Automatically, Greg held out the joint, not taking his eyes from the TV.

"Oh. He was in All About Eve, right?" Jacob inhaled and held in the smoke for a minute before passing it back.

"Yep." Greg finished the joint and began rolling another. "I think I liked Foreign Correspondent more, though."

"That was good. Probably better Hitchcock didn't get Gary Cooper for the lead, huh?"

Greg blinked fuzzily. If he was sober he could place what Jacob was talking about, then pull out all his stored up trivia and top him with something even more obscure. But he was far from sober. "Um," he said. "Yeah, man."

Jacob laughed softly. "I always expect you to know everything."

"You must get disappointed a lot then." Greg sparked the joint and passed it over.

"Not really."

"That's good. Keep your expectations low."

"How much have I missed of this?"

Greg looked at the TV screen. George Sanders was thinking of a brick wall, trying to keep the kids from guessing his thoughts. "You've missed almost all of it."

"Oh. Too bad," Jacob said, not sounding that distressed. "I should watch more movies with you."

"You just want to mooch off my dope," Greg said, grinning. "Give that back."

Jacob just smiled. He extended his arm, greenish smoke wrapping around his fingertips. "No. I need to save you from yourself."

"Dude, give it." Laughing, Greg made a grab for the joint and missed. His empty hand fell onto the couch, knuckles grazing the side of Jacob's leg. He didn't move; he could always say he'd forgotten about it, didn't mean to linger, didn't mean to touch.

Jacob offered the joint and Greg took it with his other hand, though his head was starting to feel clogged. He still didn't move.

Jacob stretched his arm out, as if he were claiming the couch. But Jacob's hand was resting on the back of his neck, fingers brushing against his hairline casually and distractedly, the way Jacob did everything. He made everything look easy.

"You're shaking," Jacob said. He sounded vaguely amused.

"Fuckin' please. I'm not," Greg said, shaking. He stared blankly at the TV. The credits had rolled; there was a commercial for wine coolers on. Greg knew if he turned his head, Jacob would be looking at him with calm blue cat's eyes that should have glowed in the dark but somehow didn't. If he turned, Jacob would pull him close. He would smell of bay rum and laundry detergent. And it would be so easy for him, it would be so fucking easy.

Greg turned to face him.

*****

Greg got up, scrubbing at his nose, and went to put another CD on. The room seemed filled with the smell of bay rum and detergent; somehow his memory had recreated the scent, and it was so strong that his sinuses were beginning to ache.

He wanted to say, "Goddamnit, quit fucking around with me," but he didn't want to hear his own voice bouncing off the walls, amplifying in the empty room. The neighbors would start complaining. "He has conversations with imaginary people all the time! We simply can't get a decent night's rest."

*You and me both, assholes.* He allowed himself a flat, dry laugh, though he knew it wasn't that funny. Fuck that, it wasn't funny at all.

He sat back down on the couch and lit a cigarette, hoping the smoke would get rid of the smell of cologne and soap. It didn't. It was Jacob amplified, enveloping him. He could open his mouth and taste Jacob on his tongue, a sharp, musky tang. He wondered if he could reach out his hand and Jacob would be there, if the air would suddenly turn to flesh. His hands were shaking.

He'd been working too hard. His brain was playing crazy sleep-deprived tricks on him, and he was buying into it for God knows what reason.

"I'm *not* going crazy," Greg said, and shuddered at the sound of his voice.

*****

Jacob never just lay back and relaxed in bed. He'd get up afterwards and wander around, making coffee, picking clothes off the floor. He did it without seeming to notice he wasn't dressed --- whoops, I'm naked --- and Greg could lay back against the pillow and just watch.

"Narcissist," Greg said, snaking his hand out to catch Jacob as he passed, running his fingertips over the soft golden skin of his inner thigh.

Jacob looked down at him amusedly, shock of hair falling in his face. "I'm not a narcissist."

"Are too," Greg said. "You'd put your pants on if you weren't. Exhibitionism's too easy for you. You want me to lie here and gape at your abundant charms and say things like, 'Oh, man oh man, you've gotta stop doing that. I think I'm going to suffer permanent nerve damage. Oh, God, please, come back to bed so that I may ravish you immediately---" He broke off into a gasping laugh as Jacob slid back into bed with him, his hand playing over Greg's chest.

"You might just be a prude," Jacob said, breath hot against Greg's ear. "It's a natural thing."

"Well, not to brag, but I've done some fairly unprudish things to you." Greg groped behind him, knuckles brushing against the ridge of Jacob's hip.

"Smokescreen."

"Your grasp of my complex psychological state humbles me. Really."

"Maybe I should do that. Become a psychiatrist."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Dude, last week you wanted to become a chef because you made an omelet that was halfway edible. You change your mind about your career goals about once every millisecond."

"Well, I'm an ambitious go-getter."

"No, you're not. If you were, you wouldn't be late for work so often."

He could feel Jacob's smile more than see it. "I thought comics weren't supposed to think about career goals."

"You've been laboring under a misapprehension."

"There's only room for one go-getter in this, anyway."

Greg turned around, moving so he was belly-to-belly with Jacob. The sarcastic comment died on his tongue; he dipped his head and ran his lips along Jacob's shoulder, nipping at the skin. He could crack him open like some exotic fruit, envelop him, devour him. He dragged his fingers over Jacob's mouth, pressing into his thigh.

Jacob laughed; Greg felt the vibration in his fingertips. He shook his head, knocking Greg's hands away. "In a minute. I'm going to get some coffee. Want a cup?" He slid out of bed just as easily as he had entered it. Greg almost whimpered, like a baby having a bottle taken away. He reached out again, but Jacob slipped through his fingers and headed out towards the kitchen. There was a fresh bite mark on the back of his right shoulder from earlier, a crescent-shaped brand.

Greg thought, *Hot damn. I'm fucking the prom king.*

*****

Greg wondered why he didn't have more memories from that time. He knew there was more to it than he remembered, times where they had fought over the remote or complained about their jobs, but it seemed like all he had were three or four things in his head. And they were insistent little fuckers.

He'd never said, "I love you," to Jacob. He was glad for that, because it hadn't been love. It was a fantasy come to life. He'd close his eyes in bed to make it easier for him to think he was fucking Calvin or William or Frank. He had no idea what Jacob was really like.

His head hurt.

*****

"Tell me again why I need to go to this thing?" Greg asked, irritably jerking on his seatbelt.

"It'll be fun," Jacob said.

"I don't know how funny I can be in front of a group of accountants."

"You won't be in *front* of them. We'll just be having dinner. You can talk to my boss; he's a big sports fan. Used to play football in college."

Greg had a vision of a huge, ham-handed gorilla stuffed into a polyester suit. Or even worse, a room full of Jacobs, looking at him with calm, disinterested eyes. He dragged a hand through his hair. He reminded himself not to behave badly. "So does this mean I'm, like, the guy?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. The guy. I'm the guy. The guy you bring to parties and dinners and whatever."

"Well, that's what I'm doing." Jacob took his eyes off the road briefly, smiling at him.

"Not like that. I mean like the official guy."

"You're weird, Greg."

"And you're dense," Greg snapped, then winced. "Sorry."

"You'll be fine," Jacob said, like a king soothing an outraged serf. "You're funny and charming and…"

"A spaz."

"Part of your charm."

"Uh." Greg looked at the sky. It was still light out; it didn't feel like almost eight. "Where are we going again?"

"It's in one of the hotels."

"It's not a HoJos, is it? Because I don't think I can deal with that."

"Nope. Think I can make this light?"

"Yeah. And they really won't care that I'm there? They won't, you know, make me drink the blood of a goat or some other weird initiation ritual?"

"Not before dinner."

"Cute." Greg turned on the radio.

He didn't see the other car until they were halfway through the intersection. He glanced up and saw it approaching through Jacob's window, and thought, *Hey, slow down, bucko,* before he realized it wasn't going to stop. He straightened instinctively, saying, "Jake---" and then it hit, the glass of Jacob's window crunching as it broke. Greg slammed against his door; a streak of pain shot down his neck, the seatbelt sliced into his chest and shoulder. Jacob fell against him, slumping across his lap heavily. Greg brought his hands up to his face to try to protect it from the glass. His chin was wet; he must have caught a stray shard. He was thinking, *Christ Jesus, don't let it get in my eyes, please, please don't let it get in my eyes,* before he realized that the car was still sliding across the road. There were telephone poles and buildings coming up to meet them and he thought, *Let us stop let us stop let us stop,* and kept thinking it when they actually did stop.

Jacob stared up at him. The left side of his face was all cut up, his hair was full of blood. His eyes were still open, neon blue, liquid with fear. Greg said, "Jake," but when he didn't get a response he reached for him and said, "All right, all right." He spoke quietly, with one hand under Jacob's head, holding his hand with the other, and it felt like they were the only two people in the world. "All right, all right," he repeated, keeping his voice low. He could have been reciting a lullaby. He saw Jacob's eyes soften, and he smiled as best he could, considering that every part of his body hurt, but he needn't have bothered.

The only way Greg could think to describe it was that something just left. Something just left, and Jacob was just heavy weight. He started to say, "Okay, Jake," but there was blood in his mouth and it was hard to speak, so he just sat quietly, looking out at San Francisco Bay through the still-intact windshield, trying not to think.

*****

The other driver died at the scene, they'd told him later. He'd been lucky, they'd told him. A few broken ribs, mildly screwed up neck. The bruises on his chest took weeks to fade. But he'd walked out of the hospital, gone back home to San Carlos and stared at the ceiling for a month. He guessed it was called surviving.

Surviving was easy enough. What was harder was when he was shaving and accidentally ran his fingers over the scar on his chin, or when he woke up thinking he was still in that fucking car. What was hardest was trying to keep from seeing how everything all fit together, because he knew there had to be some sort of meaning to what had happened and he didn't want to know what it was.

He'd done a fairly good job of not knowing, so far. When his body healed he'd immediately starting taking standup gigs that would get him out of San Fran, started looking for work in Los Angeles. He'd stopped talking about what was happening in his everyday life in his standup act, turned away from dope and people who pissed him off to politics and pop culture to eliminate the chance that one night he'd be up on stage and say out of nowhere, "So I was in this car accident and my roommate died. I think it was my fault."

He'd left a whole fucking country behind to try to get away from it. Out of America and into a whole different hierarchy, where he could get away and forget.

But it never worked. He never could detach completely. If he could he wouldn't be sitting on his couch now, crying, salt water running into his mouth.

Greg took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "Fucking stupid---" He gave up and leaned forward, arms wrapped around his stomach. For the first time in forever he just let go, without hauling himself up and mentally reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or the multiplication tables to try to make it go away. He didn't even know who he was crying for, for Jake or for what had happened or just for the scared, lonely kid he had been. He sat with his head touching his knees for a moment after everything had been bled out of him, reassuring himself that he was here, he was real.

Surviving. That was all it was.

Greg sniffed and cleared his throat. He felt like he'd been broken apart and rather hastily reassembled. He needed to find a way to fuse everything together, stop letting ghosts keep him up at night.

But, Jesus Christ, where did he *start?*

He dropped his head back down, let it touch the tops of his knees. His throat tightened. There was a wave of red behind his eyes. He hissed through his teeth and held the edge of the couch hard, feeling the wave swell and pound at him. He let it.

When he was just about ready to get up and put his foot through his television set, it receded back. Just like the ocean tides. It crashed down and then it retreated. And then it came back. He knew that, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he expected it.

He took a breath. It hurt, but he'd let it hurt. Fucking ghosts, what did they know?

They hadn't broken him back then, and he wasn't going to let them break him now.


End file.
